


Bend Until I Break

by Laurtew



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 14:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurtew/pseuds/Laurtew
Summary: Sherlock and John are a couple after Sherlock gets back, but there are things John is holding back and has never discussed. He is seriously hurting, but isn’t he always? It all comes to a head one night after a pub night with the Yarders. Will their relationship survive this?





	

Title: Bend Until I Break  
Author’s Name: Laura Sichrovsky  
Fandom: Sherlock  
Rating: E (or NC-17 if you live in the States.)  
Word Count: 6439  
Pairing: Sherlock/John (Established Relationship)  
Warnings: M/M sex, Suicide ideation, PTSD and serious depression discussion  
Season: Set in an alternate season 3 (One where John quickly gets rid of Mary and there is no baby.), post Reichenbach.  
Spoilers: Discusses the end of season 2. 

Summary: Sherlock and John are a couple after Sherlock gets back, but there are things John is holding back and has never discussed. He is seriously hurting, but isn’t he always? It all comes to a head one night after a pub night with the Yarders. Will their relationship survive this?

Disclaimer: This is where I put the statement saying that I do not own John or Sherlock, (Heh! I wish!), or anything relating to the show or books. No one is paying me to do this and if you feel the sudden urge to send me gifts, you might want to talk to someone about that. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat own all things Sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns Holmes and Watson. None of them have given me permission to use these characters as I have so if you have problems with the story, please send the pretzel bombs to me, not them. (Though if you could actually send a pretzel bomb to ACD, I’d be impressed.)

Author’s Notes: Thanks need to be given, and here is where they go. Thanks to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat for giving me a Sherlock I can get behind. Thanks to Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman for making this Sherlock and John so amazing. I tried to fight it, but they were just too remarkable not to fall for. Big thank yous to Gemma for the super-fast beta job and the many helpful suggestions. I owe you so much! 

Bend Until I Break

John walks into the Albert Tavern and stops to look around. He’s just spotted Greg and the other yarders settling into a group of tables when he feels a strong, lanky form press against his back. 

“Shall we get our drinks before we find seats?” Sherlock whispers, his breath ghosting across John’s ear.

John nods, stifling a full body shiver, though of course Sherlock notices it. He quietly chuckles, his body vibrating against John’s back. Sherlock moves from behind John, leading the way to the bar. He nods amiably at a couple of the officers who are ordering and John hides a smile as he steps up next to Sherlock.

If anyone had told John that Sherlock Holmes would be in the local pub, politely socializing with officers from the Yard, he likely would have laughed at them, but these days it’s more common than Sherlock would like to admit to. Sherlock would blame John and John will happily accept that. 

For about five years, almost from the week John moved into Baker Street, he and Sherlock have been invited to the Yard’s weekly pub night and for over four of those years, they’ve declined. To be fair, there are quite a few nights, John went, but Sherlock always avoided it with a dismissive snort.

After John had returned to Baker Street, after Mary, things between Sherlock and John had moved from platonic to romantic rather quickly, though it didn’t feel that way to John. He’d been longing for Sherlock for years, unwilling to do anything that would jeopardize their friendship. When he’d thought he’d lost Sherlock for good, he was haunted endlessly by questions of what could have been and the regret had been suffocating. Then of course there had been the monumental mistake of John getting married and the mess that followed, but with that behind him, John had moved back to the only place he thought of as home and tried to get on with his life. He hadn’t even been back two weeks when an argument over the sitting room clutter startlingly went from John screaming about biohazards on the coffee table to John pinning Sherlock to the nearest wall and kissing him senseless. He would have apologized, but Sherlock had enthusiastically returned the kiss and everything else was irrelevant, all the tiresome arguments in John’s head silenced. He loved Sherlock and through some miracle, Sherlock returned his affections; nothing else mattered.

John has come to look forward to these nights out. After Sherlock died, these pub nights were the only human contact John had for weeks at a time and he was fairly grateful that they included him. It had been the longest, darkest two years of John’s life and he’s pretty sure that the only thing that kept him from walking into traffic was knowing that Greg would notice he was gone. During his disastrous marriage, he went when he could, needing to get away from his deceitful wife. After moved back to 221, he and Sherlock were still trying to figure things out and Sherlock didn’t want to deal with people. John hadn’t forced him to, though John had continued to join the Yarders on occasion. But after three months as a couple, John had finally pushed a bit for Sherlock to come along. Of course Sherlock had said no, but when John had looked at him with pleading eyes, Sherlock sighed dramatically and gave in. It likely would have been just that one time, but when they got home, John had been so demonstrative of his appreciation that Sherlock had volunteered to go the next week. And so it has become a weekly tradition and these days no one from the force even blinks when the two of them walk in.

John has to admit, the looks on the faces of Greg and the rest of his team when Sherlock walked in behind John for the first time about six months ago were somewhat gratifying. Anderson actually choked on his drink. John was fairly proud of Sherlock that night. He had been sullen and kept his conversations to monosyllables, but he was there. John also knows that there was a fair bit of speculation and some rather covert betting pools, as to why Sherlock made the effort. But even John was surprised when three weeks later, a somewhat tipsy Sherlock had come up and kissed him right in the middle of the pub and answered that question. It wasn’t exactly how John pictured telling everyone about their relationship, but standing there, with Sherlock’s arms around him while Sherlock sucked on his lower lip, he couldn’t muster up the indignation to care.

After the initial shocked silence, the place had erupted into applause. Greg later told John that they hadn’t been surprised about the relationship, but rather the public acknowledgment of it. Greg informed John that they’d been expecting this since John had moved back to Baker Street after his divorce and that no one had missed the charged looks the two men regularly exchanged.

Tonight, just after they order their drinks, Greg walks up, holding a file, his excitement evident in his smile.

“I have something for you,” he says, handing the file to Sherlock. “Look who’s been spotted in Sweden.”

Sherlock opens the folder, laying it on the bar and frowning. John leans over, seeing a grainy black and white photo of a tall bald man crouching in an alley.

“Is that Norris?” Sherlock asks, leaning in closer. He tips his head up, smiling at Greg. “You actually found him?”

“Well, MI-6 found him, but they don’t seem to be in any hurry to go after him. Most of what he’s officially done won’t justify extraditing him.”

“They’re just going to let him go?” Now Sherlock is frowning, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “He was a key member of Moriarty’s organization, not to mention a dangerous man in his own right. He’s killed at least sixteen people and those are only the ones I have evidence for.”

“As far as the government is concerned, he’s a low budget thief and he’s not worth their time.”

“Why did you show me this?” Sherlock asks, arching an eyebrow.

Greg just shrugs and smiles.

“You can keep the file. It’s an unofficial copy. I thought you might want it for…sentimental reasons.”

While they’re talking, John’s been studying the file. The surveillance photos are rather detailed and there are landmarks and street signs that John is sure Sherlock can use to pinpoint this man’s exact location. He looks up, studying Sherlock’s face and feels a sinking in his stomach at the barely controlled excitement he sees.

“No,” John says quietly.

Sherlock frowns, turning to look at him.

“I’m sorry, John?”

“I said, no. You are not going to track this man down yourself.”

“John I didn’t…” Sherlock stops, having the decency to look embarrassed. He shakes his head, leaning in closer to John. “He’s one of the last, and…I can’t just let him go. If he ever figures out that I’m still alive, we are both in danger. He’ll come after us. And likely Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson as well.”

John can’t tell if Sherlock is being unduly dramatic in an effort to sway him or if he really does think this man is a danger to them. What John does know is this look in Sherlock’s eyes that says he absolutely cannot walk away from this. John sighs.

“When do we leave?”

“We? No, you are staying here. I’ll go alone.”

“The hell you will,” John says, fighting to keep his voice at a normal volume. “If you are tracking down a professional killer, I’m coming with you.”

“It’s a quick trip, John and I can move much faster without you.”

John almost bristles at the implication that he’ll slow Sherlock down, but that’s quickly overtaken by hurt and mild panic at how easily Sherlock thinks of leaving John behind.

“Sherlock…”

“No, John. I’ll only be gone a few days. It’s much better this way.”

John opens his mouth to argue, but Sherlock closes the folder and gets to his feet. He picks up his drink and moves down the bar, striking up a conversation with Dimmock. John closes his eyes, pulling in a breath. For a second, he feels like he’s drowning, like the world is going hazy around him and he bites his lower lip hard to centre his thoughts. He cannot do this again, he won’t and if Sherlock won’t listen to reason, then John will just have to marshal reinforcements. John walks over to a table where Greg is talking to Simpson from forensics. He sits down and waits until Greg looks at him.

“You gave him that file on purpose,” John says quietly. “You knew exactly what he’d do.”

“I know the danger he’s in from that man, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“Greg, he’s going to track him down. You have to talk him out of it. I know you can.” 

“He’ll be fine,” Greg says, shaking his head.

“You don’t know that.” John tries to keep the panic out of his voice.

“He’s pretty capable, John. He did this before.” 

“I know, I lived it, remember?” 

“I can’t tell Sherlock what to do. You know he never listens. Why are you worried?” 

“Are you stupid?” John’s voice is louder than he intended, but he can’t hold in the naked pain and anxiety that’s suffocating him. “You have to ask why I’m worried? I can’t do the part of the grieving widower again. I did it before when I didn’t have a right and it almost killed me. If I lost him now…” 

John presses his lips together, fighting the tears that are stinging his eyes. He looks at Greg to see him watching something over John’s left shoulder. John turns, knowing exactly what he’ll see, looking up into the startled eyes of the man he loves. 

“John…” Sherlock’s voice is barely above a whisper. 

John sighs. He turns back to Greg. 

“I’m sorry,” he says calmly, shaking his head. “I’m obviously overtired tonight.” 

He gets up and walks towards the door, cursing inwardly when he feels the slight limp mar his gait. It’s not obvious enough that the Yarders will notice, but Sherlock certainly won’t miss it. John stops just outside of the pub, leaning against the wall, pulling in great lungfuls of frosty air. 

Part of him needs to get away, to be by himself, but he knows that the emptiness of Baker Street, the crushing reminder of his time when Sherlock was gone from his life, will beat against him until he can’t breathe anymore. He’s just considering walking off into the night, seeing where his footsteps take him, when the door opens and Sherlock comes out at a brisk pace. It takes him about seven steps before he realizes that the man he’s after is behind him and he stops, turning in what would be a graceful ballet move, and walks slowly back. He doesn’t say anything, leaning on the wall next to John. After a minute, he reaches out, wordlessly taking John’s hand, looking up into the washed out night sky. John can feel him tense before he even speaks.

“John…”

“Don’t.” John cuts him off, not wanting to hear whatever excuse or apology Sherlock’s come up with to justify his actions then or now. “I can’t…just don’t.”

Sherlock nods, scooting closer to John and tightening his grip on John’s hand. John isn’t sure how long he intends to stay here. The cold is seeping in through his coat making his shoulder ache. He doesn’t realize he’s shivering until Sherlock moves all the way over, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close.

“We should go home,” Sherlock whispers. “This chill isn’t good for you.”

John wants to protest, wants to tell Sherlock he’ll move when he’s bloody good and ready, thank you. He knows when they get home, Sherlock will hold him and kiss him, papering over this fight, just as he always does. And John will let him, pulling his anger back in, telling himself that he’s damn lucky to have Sherlock alive and well and what is the use in fighting about something that can’t be changed. Except, this time it’s different. This time Sherlock is going to run off again, flinging himself off of a cliff or a building or whatever damn thing without a safety net and John will be left to pick up the pieces. 

But John also knows that telling Sherlock Holmes what to do is beyond futile, so he presses his lips together, nodding. Sherlock doesn’t take his arm from around John’s shoulder and they walk in an almost comfortable silence.

They get to Baker Street and John winces as they walk up the stairs. He feels tired and defeated and old tonight. He hangs up his coat and walks into the kitchen to make tea, more from habit than from any desire for the drink. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him and turns to find Sherlock leaning just inside the door, watching him.

“John, what’s wrong?”

“You have to ask?” John asks, incredulously. “Seriously, you don’t know?”

Sherlock shakes his head, looking confused and John takes a deep breath, trying to reign in his temper.

“John, I’m not sure what I did wrong, but…”

“Did you ever think it might be the fact that you are leaving me, again?”

“John, I’m not…”

“Aren’t you? You are taking luggage and going somewhere I’m not. It’s the definition of leaving, Sherlock; look it up!”

“It’s not like that. I’m just…”

“Putting yourself in danger and leaving me behind, again.”

“Again, John?”

John looks up, eyes wide, breath gone from his lungs. He wants to scream at Sherlock, to ask him if he’s kidding or screwing with John’s head, but he can’t find the words. He knows he’s shaking, but he can’t seem to control it. Pressing his lips together, John looks away.

“Why won’t you ever talk about it?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Talk about what?”

“When I was away.”

“You mean when you were dead?” Because for John it will never be that Sherlock was away, like he was on holiday abroad. He died, falling from a building, bleeding all over the rainy pavement, pulling John’s heart out in the process. For Sherlock, it’s a casual statement of fact; he was away for work, waiting until it was safe to return. For John, it was an emotional betrayal, that while he’s forgiven, he cannot forget. “I talk about it all the time. You know what I did and who I saw. I’m pretty sure you even know what I ate.”

“You tell me the facts, but you never share the emotion behind them.” Sherlock’s eyes are dark, his expression pained. “Every time I bring it up, you change the subject.” 

“What do you want me to say? I missed you. You know that.”

“You missed me isn’t the same as it almost killed you. Why did you say that to Lestrade tonight?”

And suddenly they are pushing against that barrier that John refuses to cross. This is something they’ve never talked about, even in the emotional days right after Sherlock returned or even after the change in their relationship, because while John knew he would be forgiven for punching Sherlock in the face, there are things in his head that he can never take back if he lets them out. He loves Sherlock; why hurt him over things that can’t be changed? Those first two or three weeks, Sherlock apologized over and over in several different ways and John has honestly forgiven him; but that doesn’t mean that he understands or that it hurts any less. Now he looks at Sherlock and shakes his head.

“I’m going to bed.”

“John, I thought I was supposed to be the emotionally challenged one.”

“Don’t do that. It’s not funny and it’s not helping.”

“Then tell me what would.”

“Sherlock…” John brings a hand up to his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sleep. Sleep would be extremely helpful right now.”

“John, how can I fix this if I don’t know what’s broken?”

And something about that strikes John as funny. Maybe it’s the irony of Sherlock thinking that he can fix lying to and abandoning John with a few romantic words and then just go barreling off into danger alone again. John stands there, shaking his head and laughing and he starts to wonder if what’s broken isn’t him.

“John? I’m not sure this is the appropriate time for levity.” When John just laughs harder, Sherlock gets huffy. “Fine. If you don’t want to tell me what has you upset, then I suppose I’ll just go back to the pub.”

He turns, heading for the door and something in John just shatters. Maybe it’s the anger and frustration or the strain of it all, but suddenly John is yelling at Sherlock so loudly that his throat hurts.

“Fine! Leave me behind just as you always do! I suppose I’d better get used to it! This time could you try not to stay dead for so long? I’m not sure I can take the full two years this round!” John knows he must sound deranged, but now that he’s started, he can’t pull it back in. “Maybe you could send me a note once in a while! I suppose I should be grateful I’ve been informed ahead of time. Will it be something as dramatic as the jump? Can I at least have advanced warning of it so that I’m not…so I don’t feel…and I won’t…”

John’s voice cracks and he’s sobbing so hard that he can’t breathe, hugging himself, collapsing to the floor. Sherlock is there, pulling him close, shifting to bring John onto his lap, rubbing his back and rocking slowly.

“You left me,” John whispers, choking on the tears at the back of his throat. He’s kept this inside for almost two years now and while he loves Sherlock with everything he has, sometimes John wonders just how much that is and if he really has anything left. He promised himself he’d never penalize Sherlock for those dark days, so he’s pulled all the pain in. Now it tears and fights its way lose and the words tumble free. “I didn’t even mean enough for you to tell me or even drop me a note. You let me think you died. You broke my heart and left me alone and bleeding.”

“John…” But Sherlock doesn’t seem to have words, so he falls back on kissing John’s temple.

“I wasn’t all right,” John says quietly. “When you died, you took me with you. I was empty and alone and you didn’t care.”

“I did it to save your life,” Sherlock answers.

“There wasn’t a life left to save when you died,” John says through clenched teeth. “Do you know how close I came to…how many nights I almost…”

Sherlock pulls back and looks at him, a frown on his face.

“How close you came to what, John?”

“You’re a genius, Sherlock. You know I have a gun and I don’t think I have to fill in the blanks here.”

Sherlock’s whole body goes tense.

“You wouldn’t have, would you?”

“It was starting to look more attractive every day you were gone.”

“Oh, John, I…I didn’t know.” Sherlock pulls him closer, burying his face in John’s throat. “Why didn’t you tell me I hurt you that much?”

“Would it have mattered? You couldn’t change it and either I was important to you or I wasn’t. And while several people were awarded your trust, I wasn’t one of them.” John bites his lower lip. “Damn it, Sherlock, I would have died for you and I sure as hell lived for you. Why wasn’t I important enough to tell?”

“It wasn’t you that I didn’t trust,” Sherlock says quietly. “I was already in love with you John and I knew if I told you what was happening, that you’d get involved, that you’d put yourself in danger trying to protect me and I couldn’t let that happen. I was also pretty sure that if I looked into your eyes, if I saw even one hint that you felt the same way about me, that I could never leave you and we’d both die.”

“Of course I would have tried to protect you. You were my best friend and I loved you.”

“And that’s where the whole plan would have gone to hell.”

“Then we would have made a new plan! But we would have done it together instead of you breaking me in the name of keeping me safe. I thought we were a team.” John’s breath hitches and Sherlock leans back looking at him, tipping his head in question. “I thought…you say you love me, but I’m still not…”

John looks away, shaking his head.

“I do love you, John. I’ve said it before and I mean it. I was wrong last time. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I should have told you. I thought we’d settled that.”

And really, Sherlock has just cut to the heart of the problem. They had settled it. As much as the memory of their time apart hurts John, he has gotten over being angry about it. He’s moved on and he is honestly happy with his life now and with Sherlock. No, what set this all off is that apparently, Sherlock isn’t content with what they have and given the chance, he’ll happily abandon John and jump right back into the line of fire. John takes a deep breath through his nose and turns to look at Sherlock, fighting to keep his hurt and anger under control.

“And funnily enough, you’re leaving me again. You’re still telling yourself it’s for my own good and I still don’t mean enough for you to trust me.”

“Is this because of Norris?” Sherlock looks confused. “It’s just a quick trip…”

“To face a murderer! And I know you think you have everything under control, but we both know that only works half the time. So you go off to God knows where and I wait here until Mycroft or Greg tells me that this was the bad flip of the coin and I actually have lost you this time.” John shakes his head. “You tell me that I make you stronger and you can’t do this without me, but then you tell me I’d just slow you down and you’re going without me. It’s feeling a whole hell of a lot like it’s four years ago and I’m not sure I can survive it this time.”

“John, you do make me stronger, but this…”

“No!” John doesn’t want to hear any more excuses. His heart is breaking and he wonders just how much more of this he can take. “Stop bullshitting me, Sherlock. You wouldn’t want to go after this man if he wasn’t dangerous, so quit telling me how harmless he is!”

“John…”

John shakes his head.

“I know that it doesn’t matter what I say. You’ll do what you want in the end. It’s just…” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I’m…Sherlock, I’m not sure I’ll be here when you get back.”

Sherlock gasps, his eyes going wide.

“You…you want to leave?”

“Of course I don’t, you idiot!” John runs a hand through his hair. “I love you so much that I don’t think I can breathe without you and that’s the problem. You’ll keep running off, going after those last few, and I’ll stay here, worrying and dying a little each second, until one day you won’t come back and I’ll break entirely. I barely survived it last time. If I lose you again…”

John has tried to control his fear and desperation, but as he looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, he simply can’t anymore. His breath hitches and he starts to sob again. Through his tears he sees Sherlock shaking his head and then he’s being pulled in closer, strong arms holding him.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock whispers into his hair. “I’m sorry. I’ve done it again, let my fears and stupidity hurt you and ruin things.”

“I don’t understand,” John says against the skin of Sherlock’s throat.

“I…” Sherlock’s voice cracks and John pulls back, looking at him, his brow furrowed. Sherlock swallows hard. “I wasn’t entirely honest in why I didn’t want to take you. John, this will be dangerous and I…if I couldn’t protect you…I’m just trying to keep you, to keep my heart safe, because without you, I’m nothing.”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is barely a whisper. “Is it really keeping your heart safe if you shatter it to pieces in the process? I’m not okay right now.”

Sherlock pulls John closer, his arms tightening hard enough to draw a grunt from John.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and John can feel Sherlock’s body shaking with sobs. “I’m…I never meant to…I didn’t know I…please, John, please…”

John doesn’t know what Sherlock is asking, but he’s helpless in the face of such raw emotion from the man he loves. He wraps himself around Sherlock, one hand stroking his back, the other gently threading through his hair. John isn’t sure how long they stay this way. His back starts to hurt, but he doesn’t let go. Sherlock’s crying tapers off and he pulls back, looking into John’s eyes.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Sherlock whispers. “I had no idea how close I came to losing you. I…how do I live with that? I didn’t know what I’d done to you. Why couldn’t you tell me that you were hurting so much, that you felt betrayed?”

“There wasn’t anything you could do,” John says, shaking his head. “Why would I hurt you by telling you? It was over and you couldn’t change it.”

“If I had come back and you had been…” Sherlock’s voice breaks and he swallows, shaking his head. “It was devastating enough that you had moved in with that…woman. But if you had killed yourself because of me…”

He looks at John with wide, anguished eyes. John touches his arm.

“This is why I never told you. I didn’t see the point to hurting you, making you feel guilty, when the whole thing was over and settled. You came back, we got through the Moriarty mess, Magnussen, and even Mary. You’ve actually told me that you love me and we are happy. Why would I tell you about something that you can’t take back?” 

“But it still distresses you.”

“Most of the time, no, but sometimes,” John admits. “Especially tonight, in light of what you said at the pub.”

“John, you should have told me. I can’t…we…I need you to tell me when I hurt you, even if I can’t change it. Please.”

“I…I’ll try, Sherlock.”

“I know I’ve said this before, but I’m sorry. This isn’t an excuse, but you have to understand John. I wasn’t and I’m still not used to having friends and people who care about me. I’m certainly not used to having someone who loves me enough to die for me.” Sherlock reaches out, stroking John’s face. “I know we’ve been together for nine months now, but part of me is still waiting for you to see who I really am and do the sane thing and run. So, I have all these contingency plans in my head. What will I do when John leaves? I’ll admit, the longer we’re together, the further buried on my hard drive they get, but my knee jerk reaction when making dangerous plans is still to say ‘ _I’m_ going to…’ instead of ‘we’re going to.’ I’m trying to work on that, John. I really am.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock. I’m still wondering how someone as amazing as you could love me, so I think we’re even on that.” John smiles, reaching out to take Sherlock’s hand. “I know this is still new for you, but just remember that we’re stronger together.”

Sherlock nods.

“We always were. I’ll try not to forget this time.” He squeezes John’s hand. “You’re coming with me?”

“Anywhere,” John says, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s

“I don’t deserve you,” Sherlock whispers. “I love you so much.”

“And I love you.” 

John leans in, brushing his lips across Sherlock’s. When Sherlock pulls him closer, John winces, his back protesting once again.

“Sorry,” John says. “I’m too old for this, apparently.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Sherlock says, shifting to make it easier for John to get up. “But just to be safe, let’s move this somewhere where you can stretch out your back.”

John chuckles, holding out his hand to pull Sherlock up.

“Bed then?”

“Excellent idea, John,” Sherlock says, his voice low and breathy. It sends shivers down John’s spine.

They’ve had make-up sex before. In fact, with their volatile tempers, they have quite a bit of make-up sex, which is usually hot and frantic and involves pinning each other to the walls and furniture. But this is different. It’s unrushed and tender, the healing of a wound too long left untended. It’s a slow build that starts when they sit on the bed. John is surprised when there is space between them and looks up to see that Sherlock is almost as nervous as he was the first time they’d ever gone to bed together. He arches an eyebrow and Sherlock meets his eyes, his expression unsure as if he doubts his right to touch John. John decides he has to put an end to this right now. He pulls Sherlock close whispering in his ear.

“I love you so much, Sherlock. I never want a life you aren’t in.”

He has more to say, more reassurances that Sherlock has been denied far too many times in his life, but before he can give voice to them, Sherlock is shifting, pulling John up and claiming his mouth with breath-stealing intensity. Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop and John is almost overwhelmed by the soft desperation of Sherlock’s kisses.

He expects things to progress more quickly, as despite how much Sherlock enjoys kissing, he is usually quite eager to advance to complete nudity. But tonight, Sherlock seems intent on taking his time and while his hands are enthusiastically roaming John’s body, he never breaks the connection of their lips. John attempts to pull back, wants to look into Sherlock’s eyes, but Sherlock follows him, sucking John’s lower lip, ramping up the kiss again. John would complain, but the low needy moans Sherlock is making are going right to his groin.

Sherlock breaks the kiss, only to move his lips across John’s cheek, ghosting along the skin of his face. He lightly kisses John’s eyelids, across the bridge of his nose, down his chin. He moves back up, softly touching his tongue behind John’s earlobe, sending shivers through John’s body.

“I need you so much,” Sherlock whispers, his warm breath washing over the sensitive skin of John’s neck.

“You have me,” John replies, biting back a moan. “Please, Sherlock, I need…”

He doesn’t even finish the sentence before Sherlock is moving, pulling John closer, kissing him deeply once more, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons on John’s shirt. If John’s brain wasn’t quickly shorting out, he’d be impressed that Sherlock manages to completely undress him, while never breaking the connection of their mouths.

He’s about to attempt to return the favour when Sherlock pulls back. John’s breath catches as he takes in Sherlock’s appearance, his hair wildly mussed, his face flushed, breath heaving, lips wet and slightly swollen. Wordlessly, Sherlock hastily pulls his own clothes off, tossing them to the floor. He clumsily rummages through the bedside table, pulling out the lube and then he’s back, his mouth ravaging John’s with an enthusiasm that borders on frantic.

“What do you want, John?” he asks, his lips still against John’s.

“You,” John gasps. “Inside me. Now.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, hands stroking down John’s body.

He brushes against John’s hardness and John can’t hold back a full-throated moan. Sherlock pauses for a fraction of a second, then he wraps his hand around John, slowly stroking. John’s breath catches as pleasure spirals through him.

“I love how you feel,” Sherlock says. “Just touching you like this excites me more than I thought possible.”

John pushes forward, kissing Sherlock, whimpering against his lips. He leans back, panting, head almost spinning with need.

“Please, Sherlock, now.”

Sherlock kisses him again, his mouth possessive, plundering as his fingers leave John’s erection, drifting lower. He pauses only long enough to coat them with lube, then he is gently pushing one finger in. John groans, his whole body vibrating with it. This seems to spur Sherlock on. He kisses John with intent as he prepares him, his tongue thrusting into John’s mouth just as his fingers move in and out of his body. John knows he is making low moans, but he realises that Sherlock’s deep throated growls are an interesting counter-harmony. John always enjoys sex with Sherlock, but tonight there is something deeper and John decides he likes this needy, wanton version of Sherlock, who can’t seem to get enough of John’s mouth.

Sherlock doesn’t even stop kissing John as he slicks lube on his own erection. He pulls John onto his lap again and this marginalizes the difference in their heights. Sherlock shifts, pulling John closer and their hips align, their erections rubbing together. Both of them gasp, then Sherlock lifts John a bit, using his weight to slowly slide him down onto Sherlock. John pushes up and as he slides down, Sherlock thrusts up, meeting him. They set a rhythm, slow and steady, the heat building between them.

Sherlock finally stops kissing John, pulling back slightly to look into his eyes.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers. “I love you so much, John. Don’t ever leave me. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t think, I didn’t know. Please, I love you. I need you to know that.”

“I do,” John says, shifting his hips just a bit, making Sherlock moan. “I know you love me and I love you and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll never leave you again, John.” Sherlock is practically panting as he speaks, his rhythm faltering for a second. “You’re everything to me. I trust you with my heart and my life and I’ll never leave you again.”

John leans forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s, his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I won’t ever leave you either,” he says quietly. “I’ll stay with you for the rest of our lives. I’ll always be yours.”

Sherlock gasps and John pulls back to see Sherlock staring at him, his eyes wide, his breath hitching.

“Oh, yes, John, yes,” Sherlock says, licking his lips, his rhythm speeding up. “You are mine.”

He says the last part in a low deep, possessive growl, emphasizing each word with a deep thrust of his hips and it’s all John can do to keep his control. There is something about knowing that Sherlock wants and needs him so much, that he can strip him of his defenses so completely, that sends a rush through John.

“God, I need you so much, John. You feel so good, make me feel so good…Oh…I…Please, John!”

Something about Sherlock’s voice and the intensity in his eyes makes John’s breath catch and he’s suddenly very close to the edge. Sherlock leans forward, kissing him again and slips his hand between them, wrapping around John, stroking him. 

John can feel his orgasm coming on him like a hurricane. It breaks and he is screaming, his whole body shaking with the intensity of it. All the emotions of the night, of the past four years really, swirl and beat about inside him until he is left only with the pureness of his love for Sherlock. Wave after wave of pleasure hits him. It seems to go on forever, yet not long enough. He can hear Sherlock screaming his name, feel him trembling in John’s arms, can feel wet heat inside himself. 

And then John is in Sherlock’s embrace, feeling wrung out and immensely satisfied. Sherlock eases them down onto the mattress, pulling John closer.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice scratchy and raw. “More than I thought I was capable of. You are everything to me.”

“I love you too,” John says, his fingers tangling in Sherlock’s hair. “So much.”

Sherlock shifts, slipping out of John while moving so they are face to face. He leans in and gently kisses John. They stay like this for a while, kissing and holding each other close. Sherlock barely gives John breathing room, even when they finally move to the shower to clean up. John isn’t complaining though; somehow all this has served to do nothing but increase his feelings for Sherlock.

They dry off and move back to the bed, settling in under the covers. Sherlock wraps an arm around John’s waist.

“We’ll head out on Friday. How’s your Swedish, John?” Sherlock asks, smiling.

“Nonexistent,” John admits. “Couldn’t I just be your slightly dim British porter?”

“Hmmm, I think I’d much rather you be my adorably clever British lover,” Sherlock says, pulling him closer and nuzzling John’s neck.

“Now that’s a part I could get into,” John says, stifling a shiver. “I’ll make it worth your time.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Sherlock says, moving and sitting back expectantly.

“What, you want me to audition for the part of your lover? Sherlock, I am your lover.”

“Yes, John, but this is a production. You’ll have to be theatrical.”

“You want me to love you theatrically? I think that’s a bit above my pay grade.”

Sherlock sighs.

“I suppose we’ll just have to adlib it then.”

“I’m much better at winging it,” John agrees, nodding.

“Though it wouldn’t hurt to put in a little rehearsal,” Sherlock says suggestively.

John arches an eyebrow at him, then laughs.

“Oh, I’ll rehearse you, you lunatic.”

“Why John, you make that sound so dirty.”

And suddenly John is launching himself across the bed, laughing as he tackles Sherlock. Sherlock rolls them, pinning John beneath him, laughing and tickling John. John realizes that he’s never been this happy. The darkness he’s been carrying around for over four long years has lifted and whatever happens, they’ll face it together as they were always meant to. He can’t help grinning as he pulls Sherlock in for another kiss.


End file.
